And once again I turn to the keys for support. I need help.

Seriously.

I asked a friend today if she could tell me what kind of friend I am and what kind of person I am. She couldn’t answer.

For once, I don’t blame her. It’s my fault this time.

People say I’m too quiet. Too shy. No one knows anything about me. I present a smiling mask for everyone to see.

Aaand I’m becoming self obsessed.

Who is Sara Hannigan? I mean really. Who is she? Could anyone tell me?

Maybe my parents. Maybe friends I had before I withdrew into my shell.

Let’s face it—I’ve had bad experiences. I’m a sucky judge of character. My friend in third grade thought nothing was funnier than tormenting me. My fifth grade friend decided it would be fun to stick a knife to her head and not respond when I tried to talk her out of it.

Oh, and then there was Sierra. She sent me a note telling me to stop following her, and then wouldn’t explain it.

Really, I don’t know if these are the reasons for my shyness. I don’t know if these are the reasons for my insecurities. I just know I have serious problems getting close to people.

Which is kind of sad at fourteen. This is supposed to be social hour, remember?

Maybe it’s hormones. Maybe I’m just freaking out over everything. I’m trying to take a step back and look at everything objectively.

Imagine that. It’s not working.

I also told the same friend that no one tries to get to know the shy me. That’s not true. She did. Another friend of hers did. Kids at school do.

I feel that I’ve become too prickly, and I don’t know how to fix it. My soul strength rests right here—in what you’re reading. This is the only place where I feel comfortable—on a computer with a password.  No one can see me here. Perfectly safe.

I don’t confide in anyone anymore. I’m afraid that people will just give me weird looks and walk away. Weird looks that say ‘what does that straight-A student with great parents and a lot of money have to worry about? She knows nothing of real problems’.

Right again. Maybe that’s why I’m having the problem. My problems aren’t real—I’ve got a lot going for me. I have friends…maybe no best friends, but friends. I’ve got a steady home life. Maybe my problem is that I kind of want to be social while being curled up in a ball at home.

Sad to say, that’s the worst of it.

I told you—I don’t have any real problems. No one’s dying. I have no stories or advice to offer—I kind of gave up on giving advice after I realized that it was useless. Only people with experience can give advice, and I, sadly, am in a bubble. A thin one now, but a bubble. It didn’t help when my friend tried to commit suicide on my watch.

A thin hurt now, but still there.

Whenever I release information to my friends, I just do it in blurts when I can’t take it anymore.

I’m not a good person. That friend who tried to commit suicide? She tried to keep in touch, but I couldn’t take it any more. I’ve fallen out of touch with all but the more persistent friends. I just don’t want to be hurt again. I do well with casual friends, but whenever I want to go deeper, they just want to be casual. And anyone who wants to be best-friend status has to go through hell, at which point they probably just want to run away. I want to run away. I want to be simple again.

The last two years I spent at St. Joseph’s did a lot of damage….but, I wonder—was it my fault? Was it this one-sided me what made me so universally ignored?

I think that’s worse than the other theory that I just didn’t fit in…but, maybe I’m just overthinking things. Maybe I should just withdraw until I’m ready to deal with people again.

Until I’m sure of who I am.

Night.